Welcoming the Shore
by TenoderaSinensis
Summary: She was always on the edge of his consciousness, drawing him in, tugging at him, the quiet voice in the back of his head that didn't approve while he made out with Lila or Ruth or Ginger or Sarah or any of the others he'd loved and lost of his own volition. She was just there and that had always been enough.


**A/N ;**  
Hey everyone! This is my first HA story, so hopefully I can stay true to how I feel these characters would act. I don't have many plans for long stories, just a few little snippets, but I am certainly working on that. This is going to be a cute little drabble/dribble/short piece to help me get a feel for where Arnold and Helga will fit into my understanding of their relationship. Please review with suggestions or comments; I'd love to know how everyone feels about my interpretation. For context, I prefer the idea that our beloved gang has grown into some of their features, which I believe the cartoon would have exaggerated if they were "real" so to speak. So, Arnold's head shape is less severe, for instance. I enjoy going to Deviantart and exploring the different visualizations of an older (more realistic) bunch, particularly because that is my favorite representation of them. I think you can expect that in future HA fic's of mine they will always be a little older, a little deeper, a little more real feeling.

This story is heavily inspired by a song that I believe exemplifies the way Helga views Arnold in a very adult way. "From Eden" by Hozier, if you care to listen. Really a beautiful song and a fantastic artist, I highly recommend the listen. I am going to post a few snippets of lyrics in and among the story where they fit; hopefully it works the way I want it to. I started this thinking the song was more of a Helga perspective, but really it has elements from both she and Arnold that are worth considering. Upon reread, I sort of lose the song in the story a little but I think it served as a good amount of inspiration. Sorry in advance for the lackluster ending. I'm still practicing!

 _Babe, there's something lonesome about you,  
_ _something so wholesome about you -  
_ _get closer to me.  
_

 **H;  
** She watched him, always from afar, always careful to regularly look away with a disinterested quirk of one eyebrow to gaze blandly at others passing through. He couldn't be special, he had to be just one more face; one more person she looked at while she people watched. It had become a habit to gather her purple pen, a leather-bound blank book (probably the seventh or eighth one bought this year, though she hadn't kept track), and whatever spare change floating around her apartment she could find and head over to the bustling little bistro (Kathy's? Kelly's? She never even glanced at the sign anymore) on the other side of town on Friday evenings. There she would settle into a cozy corner table, far from the door and prying eyes with her back to the wall, pen poised and wiggling now and again. Big, thoughtful baby blues watched people come and go, happy and sad, lonely and loved. It was high on the list of her favorite places to write.

 **A;  
** He didn't like to think he was predictable. Sure, he was easy-going, laid back, cool and collected most of the time. You'd be hard pressed to find something about him that wasn't likable (though many items had been pointed out to him over the years, they were not widely agreed on) or even something that could be considered annoying. He was kind, so kind that he was occasionally mistaken for being insincere – something he was never able to really wrap his mind around. There were people in the world who waited on the edge of their awareness, standing ready by their shields to deflect any niceties anyone tried to offer, genuine or otherwise. As he glanced subtly towards a shadowed corner of the busy little café his heart briefly felt sharp, each healthy beat another knock into his chest. He didn't even question it any more - it was as natural as breathing these days. He couldn't remember when it had started happening, only that as time turned and seasons fell in layers atop the busy little city he found himself finding her.

 **H;  
** She felt like a ship always at sea, swaying and turning in the stormy waves and never able to find true north. In the distance lighthouses would flash their welcome, and their warning - _come to us, but beware! –_ and she could never delve deep enough to find the courage she needed to seek out their dangerous shelter. The water was always too choppy, the peril of rocks too great. She would rather take her chances in the open ocean as a slave to the changing currents and hostile wind than go ashore and find her legs no longer even worked on dry land. It was always a tug-o-war and it was always exhausting. The temptation to run aground was always greatest when she saw him; he was a clear lagoon that harbored the weary and weak.

Her pen scribbled furiously as it struggled to keep up with her endless metaphors.

 **A;  
** He only realized he had been staring when someone next to him cleared their throat. He jumped a little and looked ahead to see that the line that had been ahead of him was now gone, re-gathered behind him in a host of new and impatient people. Embarrassed, he hurried forward and placed a five-dollar bill on the counter as he ordered a cup of coffee and a piece of apple pie. Standing awkwardly by the cooler display as the older lady behind the counter lassoed him a healthy sized slice, his mind wandered. Should he say something to her? There was something mentally blocking his path to her, but he couldn't decide which of them had put the barrier there in the first place. Taking his order from wrinkled hands (and being treated to a wink that he couldn't quite decipher) he stood for a moment and considered his options.

Next time, he assured himself as he headed to a table in a different part of the small bistro. Next time, he would speak to her.

 **H;  
** She watched him go shamelessly now that he was turned away. Head to toe that boy was the most beautiful thing she could think of, in the moment or otherwise. His jawline suited him now, so much less abstract than it had been when they were children, and his mess of blonde hair was still untamable. She liked it when he wore his blue cap from time to time; particularly the occasions he wore it backwards (though he only did that when he and Gerald played basketball, something she wasn't actually _invited_ to watch from a distance as she passed on her way to the store to buy milk) because it made him look so… what was the word… _delinquent_. The goody-good boy she knew him to be was part of what drew her in. Like a moth to a flame she sought him out, eager to catch rare glimpses of the underlying emotions that made him human, the ones he didn't show to the rest of the world. The times he would get upset or angry, though she hardly ever knew the cause, were like a hard drug to a longtime user. Simply seeing the young man (she had to admit it, he fit the bill these days) was plenty to curb her innate care for him, a curiosity that had evolved from her love when they were children. But when he showed the other side of himself, the side that wasn't so innocent, so perfect - that was when she felt like she could have a place in his heart someday. Those were the times when she felt like she finally had common ground with him. So, some way or another, she always found her way back to him.

Despite these feelings, she knew they would never be together. She knew it because deep down she also knew that they were polar opposites. He was handsome, well liked and always trying to be there for those around him. She was the skinny blonde who had picked on him when they were kids, then faded into the background all through high school. She kept on with Phoebe however and the short braniac remained a consistent connection to the cornflower optimist via her own boyfriend, Gerald. They all got together from time to time, but Phoebe knew that being within close proximity to him had a tendency to make her friend a little erratic.

What was it that had caused the disconnection?

 **A;  
** He chewed thoughtfully on his slice of pie, staring into the grain of the small wooden table he sat at. His feelings for the young woman (God, she certainly fit _that_ description these days) had been blossoming for a few years right under his nose. The group had always included her, though she seemed to rather hide herself away than actually participate. Or, she would only speak to Phoebe when they were all together, mostly in quiet mumbles or after having stepped a few feet away from everyone else. She was always at the parties, the birthdays, the bar hopping, everything. But for the life of him, he couldn't remember the last time they actually spoke. He casually looked up from the table to peek at her corner of the café, watching as her lidded eyes swept over what she'd been writing, chewing absently on her pen cap. He noticed that her nails were nicely rounded, as though she had taken a moment to sit and file them. Her face, too, was serene and kempt; hints of mascara and light pink lipstick accentuated features he hadn't realized were so beautiful in the first place. He quickly looked away, before she had the chance to look up and see him staring at her with red cheeks and wide green eyes.

He always tried to be chivalrous towards her, always tried to be considerate of her feelings. Though they very seldom exchanged words anymore, he recalled holding the door for her last week somewhere, watching her downcast eyes as she murmured her thanks almost inaudibly. Small actions, small baby steps to show that he cared. He had always thought that was the way to win a woman over – gently, warmly, letting them come to you. It had always worked in the past; he had a slew of former lovers that had always failed to meet his expectations. He let them down gently, with an "It's not you," speech and a friendly smile to sooth the burning wound he'd inflicted. They had only ever made him lonelier, more desperate for affection. He was always the white knight, always shining in the evening sun as he rode to the saving of another damsel that needed his help, needed a light to show them that there was still innocence in the world and that not all men required physical attention to justify their own response of emotional connection.

He was exhausted with it.

 **H;  
** Part of Helga's transformation, which had been happening very slowly over the past ten years or so, was the general acceptance that her life could only be what she made it. She used to need to see him, to carry that locket around, to watch him as he smiled. Now she didn't need those things. They were bonuses, sure, but it had changed from being her rising sun and falling twilight into a general admiration of handsome attributes. She liked to think that she looked at other men in such ways, particularly the ones she'd accepted advances from, but some part of her always nagged that perhaps his nose wasn't quite round enough, his jaw not quite shapely enough, his chest too broad or too thin. They were all cheap versions that she kept buying, the knock-offs being sold as the real deal.

A lot had changed in the young woman's life since the general innocence of youth. When her mother had died of liver failure five years ago, she had cried for her and the relationship they never had. She wasn't as stony towards her family as she led the world to believe; some part of her still recognized them as kin, and certainly mourned the loss of one as important as a mother. The ache had faded fast however and the loss was not a deep cut, more like a long expected scratch that stung a little longer than anticipated. That had been when she was nineteen. Her father had shortly thereafter moved to a more tropical area of the world with a large sum of life insurance payout and no regard for his youngest daughter. She had been lucky that in one moment of clarity, her mother had written up a will that bequeathed a decent amount of savings that hadn't been touched in a decade or two. The lawyer told her it was a college fund long abandoned, and that hurt a little more than she would ever admit.

With the small sum of money safely tucked into her own savings account and steady work as a waitress to bring in more every week, the young woman found herself a comfortable apartment in the middle of town and continued her longtime passion of writing. She hadn't found her breakthrough just yet, but she knew it was close. Looking up from her scribbled poetry her gaze searched out her oldest form of inspiration, finding him staring into a piece of pie as if it held all the world's answers in its swirl of cinnamon and melting cream. If only it did.

 _Honey, you're familiar like my mirror years ago.  
_ _Idealism sits in prison; chivalry fell on its sword.  
_ _Innocence died screaming, honey, ask me I should know -  
_ _I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door.  
_

 **A;  
** The urge to reach out to her was suffocating. He saw her here almost every week, why was today so hard? He had let this build up, he knew it. Some part of him was still fighting hard against the idea of feelings for his old bully, and that was a large part of why he never had the courage to approach her. Fear of rejection was his first inclination, but there was something else there too. Fear of temptation felt more correct when he ran over the words in his head. Fear of the dark, fear of the reality, fear of difficulty. She was all of those things and more. She was always on the edge of his consciousness, drawing him in, tugging at him, the quiet voice in the back of his head that didn't approve while he made out with Lila or Ruth or Ginger or Sarah or any of the others he'd loved and lost of his own volition. She was just there and that had always been enough.

Now, more and more he felt her pulling away. The further she pulled, the more he leaned towards her. He remembered their history, all the hasty words spoken as children. He'd always thought that had been all it was, but now he knew it was wrong. He didn't regret not taking her seriously, or shying from the prospect of undying love at the age of ten. He knew himself and he knew her and he _knew_ that it couldn't have worked. They were in different walks of life and always had been, until now that was. They were both hard working young adults who had passions and goals, had both loved others and learned lessons. Could it actually be that his fear of her now was stemming from the slow burning heat in his stomach that told him that his opportunity was near at hand? It was a fear of finality, he came to at last; being with her would be the end of being with all others.

 **H;  
** She had filled several pages now, all the margins and empty spaces filled with notes, corrections, and doodles. Backs of pages, fronts and everywhere she could fit anything was holding a special feeling, a special emotion for the word or phrase. She had a wealth of articulate beauty that poured into her sentences like a mother giving all she had in the world to her child. Her writing was her outlet; her one source of individuality that helped her sort through her life more than any human could ever hope to do. Flipping back a few dozen pages would reveal to the reader a recent heartbreak involving a tall handsome youth and wild gray eyes that had only looked skin deep. Though she knew he wasn't The One, she had humored him more than she thought she was even capable of, and the aftermath of the abrupt breakup had left her hurt. Every new scratch to the surface only dug into the depths of what had already been there: distrust, which translated into a strong outer defense that took time and energy to rebuild each time she let it down for a passing fancy. You would think she would have learned by now.

She looked up again, but the object of her midnight fantasies had left his spot across the bistro. She looked back to her work, not allowing herself to be disappointed. There were other fish in the sea and she'd be damned if she let this… this _trout_ would ruin her mood. She flipped a page and doodled a small swirl in one corner, letting her furrowed brows relax a little as she told herself mentally to ignore the bad taste in her mouth. It hadn't been her coffee, which was sitting now getting cool on the windowsill next to the table she sat at. She crossed her long legs beneath it, tanned and clad only in a pair of jean shorts that rode up a little higher than she was happy with. As she was considering getting up and getting a fresh cup of coffee, she felt the air shift and the presence of another person sit down across from her at her table.

"Listen buddy – ," she began with a huff, feisty blue eyes shooting up to the very face of her one true confliction, the one thing in her life she couldn't put her finger on and keep from confusing her. He sat with an almost nervous expression on his handsome face, seeming to take in her appearance with zeal as well as timid shyness. She raised an eyebrow at him, stopped dead in her sentence. She cleared her throat, unsure of how to continue. She looked away, tapping her pen absently at her journal. "Arnold," She started awkwardly, looking up at him through her eyelashes.

"Something I can help you with, Bucko?"

 **A;  
** Arnold felt the tiniest bit of hope creep into his chest. The words were ones he'd heard before, dozens of times, but not for a long while now. They wanted to be said with more vigor and distaste, he knew that they did, but what had come out was almost a genuine question mixed with general indecisiveness that gave him reason to go on with his bravery. "Helga," He began, finally looking up and meeting her gaze (was it shy? He held his breath for a minute, not believing his own intuition) to see what was there. He could see the emotional battle going on behind them; try as she might to hide it from him. She'd always been hard to read when they were children, always so hard and unrelenting that it was the only way you could picture her to be. But now, he knew better. She wasn't made of stone, she was a woman. She felt hurt, she felt love, and she felt fear. Those things he could understand, _finally_ understand, and it felt like a crumbling bridge was being repaired before his very eyes.

"I haven't seen you around in a while, how have you been?"

 **H;  
** How had she been? What kind of question was that? Her brows furrowed for a moment and she opened her mouth to snap at him, but then she shut it again and her features relaxed. How _had_ she been? Lonely, she concluded. She had been lonely, and she didn't want to admit why. It wasn't the loss of family or the abandonment of every man she let in to love her. It was the sight of Arnold with other women; it was the view from her tall tower that showed only Arnold and his happiness without her. She had long abandoned her stalker ways, and you would think in a city so decently sized as Hillwood that they wouldn't run into each other so often, but they did. She thought it was always her seeing him and was fairly clueless that he could mirror that sentiment.

"Living the dream, Chuckles. Can't you tell? It's all kittens and rainbows for this old girl," She answered with a careless shrug. He didn't seem deterred by this answer however, which she had meant to be discouraging. Anything to get away from him, she reasoned. This was too much contact, too much interaction and _he_ had been the one to initiate it. She felt her hands would shake themselves off her wrists if she let go of her death grip on her journal. Her white knuckled hold was the only tether to the real world and without it she would spiral off into the unknown, swept away by feelings she refused to believe could still be real after so long.

She watched him out of the corner of her eye as she turned her attention to the window, watching people stroll by as though her world wasn't going dark all around her. She wasn't prepared for this, she'd specifically avoided unnecessary contact with Arnold for reasons like this. She hadn't gotten over him yet, and seeing him, torturing herself by putting herself in situations he was sure to pass through, was keeping her from surmounting the giant rocky hill that was her feelings for him. She wanted to love him, but she hated herself for it. It went endlessly back and forth.

 **A;  
** The fact that she hadn't reached over the table to sock him in the jaw for invading her personal space was proving to be a huge confidence boost for Arnold and he plunged himself into the deep end now, heedless of his lurking fear and now fully embracing the adrenaline that was coursing through his system. "Well that's great, you had me worried for a while there. You know, because you didn't come to Stinky's party two weeks ago…" here he paused, searching her face for some ounce of emotion to help him reach deeper. "I looked for you," He concluded, a little more quietly. Then, like he had lit a match in a dark room, all he could see was her eyes. They had turned to stare at him, everything she felt dashing through them like lightning. They had turned from a dark and cloudy blue to a light steel color, her pink lips parted slightly in surprise.

For a moment he was sad. Sad, because she was so much more fragile than she'd ever been given credit for. Not in a way that needed helping or fixing, which was what Arnold was so used to seeing in women he cared for, but in a way that revealed that her tough exterior was truly just a defense. It was a way to push back the hurt, the confusion, the rejection and the fear. When she was open and raw, he knew that she could be an incredible creature capable of the most intense emotion he'd ever witnessed in a person. He'd seen it once when she thought no one was watching as she scooped up fallen baby birds, climbing high into an old oak in the park to put them back and then waiting all afternoon up there to make sure the mother returned. It hurt him to know that she could be surprised when someone said they had looked for her, and in doing so shown disappointment that she hadn't been there.

 **H;  
** Oh, the party. She had been invited just like always, as was their entire old group, but this time she hadn't gone. Her public appearances had always been sparse, but lately she'd grown more and more anti-social. She was slipping into the mindset that she could tackle life alone, with a few handsome faces to share her pillow with once in a while, and that would be enough. But now, sitting in front of her, a lighthouse on the cliff of a turbulent sea was extending its long light and beckoning her to shore. Fear gripped her, but her heart was warmed. ' _He looked for me,'_ Her mind whispered as a soft blush crept across her cheekbones. She reached up with one hand (practically leaving an indent in the cover of her journal) and tucked a stray clump of flaxen hair behind one ear, which was pierced multiple times up the cartilage. She opened her mouth to respond, eyes downcast as she looked for the right words.

"I was busy, what's it to _you_ , anyway?" She tried to make it sound threatening, but the vigor of Helga's youthful faux-hate had fled her years ago. She was pensive and withdrawn versus snarling and aggressive. Those traits were easy enough to bring out, but not at Arnold. Not anymore. 

_-_

 _Babe, there's something tragic about you -  
_ _something so magic about you.  
_ _Don't you agree?_

 **A;  
** Determined now that he was making progress, Arnold soldiered on. "I wish you had been there. It was fun, but I didn't want to talk to anybody there as much as I wanted to talk to you," and there it was. The sentence hung in the air between them and he watched as her eyes widened and her breath caught. Could it be too much to hope for that she still had feelings for him, even after all these years? He had seen her around with men before, but none stuck it out too long. He wondered if it was Helga that more often broke it off, or if she was the one being left behind. Seeing her with other men had always brought out something inside of him that, well, reminded him of Helga. He felt fearsome and strong, as though he could have walked right up to the couple (whatever combination of Helga and random boy it was as they walked through the park, directly through his tri-weekly jogging route) and pushed them apart, taking the beautiful blonde girl for himself. He could have defended her, too, as age had given him both height and a more muscular build. His grandfather always told him that he looked like his father, and Arnold liked to believe that was true.

 **H;  
** There was a still, hanging silence as she locked eyes with him and his lips slid up into a low, lazy smile. It said volumes to her trained writer's mind. She saw into that smile and something clicked, something that had never quite matched up before. Gears in her head were turning; her heart was thumping in her chest so loudly she feared he would hear it. Everything in her mind had stopped at the sight of that smile. "I…" She started, unsure for once how to answer. She toyed with a page in her journal for a moment, biting her bottom lip nervously as her cheeks flushed a little bit more. "Why… would you want to talk to me?" She said finally, eyebrows furrowed in would-be anger and confusion as her defenses struggled to regain their hold. She felt numb, like a cold shower was washing down over her and there was nowhere she could go to get out of it. Like the rain they had stood in as children, like the flood she had nearly been swept away in, there was so much riding on this conversation that the tenseness in her body and rigidity of her spine was becoming painful and she couldn't hardly stand it any longer because she would absolutely _burst_ –

 **A;  
** He saw it coming before even she did, perhaps, whens she stood up and bolted out the door, her book and messenger bag scooped up in a flurry as she flew from the café. He was up instantly behind her, following her hurriedly out the door and chasing after her as she powerwalked down the sidewalk. His long legs ate up the distance and soon he was in front of her, walking backwards and holding out his arms pleadingly. She had her head down, he saw, and was staring at the sidewalk so that he couldn't see her face. The cool afternoon breeze of early summer swept across them and tousled their yellow locks – hers in pigtails tied loosely at shoulder height, his still almost-too-long and wild.

"Helga, please –," He started, placing his hands on her shoulders to stop her from mowing him down. She jolted at the contact and jumped back a little, looking up at him with wet eyes and her bag clutched to her chest like a lifeline. She looked like he had just struck her and the thought was tucked away for later to be explored, knowing that now the avalanche was started and he would follow it to its conclusion regardless of the things he would inevitably coax her to tell him, the things that would make him furious to know.

"Please," He started again, replacing his hands on her shaking shoulders as calmly as possible, one hand reaching up to cup her cheek and swipe at a tear with his thumb where it had dared leak from her stormy eyes. "I need you in my life, Helga, and its taken you not being in it for me to realize that," People bustled around the couple but it was as if they were alone. He knew this was not how she wanted to be viewed, as weak and insecure, and he saw it as her eyes hardened and her lips pursed as though damming the river of emotion that was threatening to take her over. He released her shoulders and took one of her hands in both of his larger ones, enclosing it warmly so that she could have some space but still be connected to him.

"Helga, let me be part of your life too."

 **H;  
** He was kissing her. She didn't know when it had happened or when he had moved, how long she had been silent after his confession or what he had read in her face. She was angry that he had dragged this response out of her; she was _not_ some child to be coddled and babied. But when she felt his lips on hers she felt something in her stomach ignite, and as she gasped he deepened the kiss and she felt her knees tremble. All she had wanted but refused to continue chasing was now kissing her, warmly and kindly and welcoming and all safe harbor and calm oceans. She felt her eyelashes flutter shut, and as they stood a little out of the way towards the building edge of the sidewalk, passer by couldn't even fault them for the public display - it was too innocent, to real, to _true_ to find problem with. She felt his warm hands still holding hers and as they parted she curled her fingers a little inside his grasp, eyes opening slowly to find him still close to her shaking form as if ready to catch her should she fall. She cleared her throat a little and tried to banish the lovesick smile that was blooming on her face, looking down at Arnold's shoes as he waited patiently for her response.

"I'm no cakewalk, Arnold,"

 **A;  
** The sound of his name on her lips sent shivers down the blond boy's spine, and though the fears he had dissected in the café were still looming before him, he felt as though he wasn't so terrified of what they represented any more. He took in the sight of the young woman before him and his gaze softened, knowing she was right. "I understand," was all he said in a whisper that matched hers. It had been the right answer; she looked up (because puberty had given both of them the gift of tall genetics, his a few inches more than hers) and though he could tell there was still doubt lingering behind her eyes there was also hope there, and courage - more than he'd had the past few years while watching her from a distance. His respect for the woman in front of him was unwavering; he knew there would be a hard road ahead of them, but he also knew that she was tougher than anyone he could name. If anyone could carry them through it, it would be her. And he'd be there to help her, every step of the way.

He leaned in again, this time tilting his head and placing a hand on her neck, his thumb gently brushing her bobbing throat as he kissed her with his whole heart behind it. She tilted her head and pressed into him, the only thing separating them being her messenger bag, which she still held closely to her chest. He felt her push back against him and opened his eyes just a little to see her own screwed tightly shut, tears leaking out of them as her thin fingers let go of her bag and clutched at his shirt, the bag still held in place by the closeness of their bodies. She felt like heaven in his hands. 

_-_

 _Babe, there's something broken about this,  
_ _but I might be hoping about this._

 **H;  
** She was crashing into shore, the rocks would swallow her whole and darkness would seep in, she would never again see her open ocean or feel the salty spray of the wind welcoming her home. But this... this wasn't what she expected. The shelter of his arms, now encircling her shoulders and cradling the back of her neck with one hand, the other hand splayed against her lower back, this was something wholly different than what her nightmares had shown her. There was safe passage to harbor, the water was clear and shining, no rocks to be found in her path. He was a welcoming clarity that sheltered her, but she didn't feel stranded or afraid as she had with other men. She felt like the path back to her life as she knew it and found to be finally enjoying it, sans Arnold before today, was still clearly visible on the evening horizon. She could go back to it anytime she pleased.

When they separated she couldn't help the wide smile that broke across her face.

 **HA;  
** "As long as you know what you're getting into, pal." She snorted with a punch to his shoulder. She watched as Arnold brightened and practically glowed with her acceptance. "Wanna come over and watch a movie?" He asked enthusiastically, holding out his hand for her to take. She looked at it for a second before grasping it and nodding her head, swiping away the last of the tears that had slipped down her cheeks.

"Sure, but nothing sappy, I've had enough of that for one day." She said with a playful roll of her eyes. He only smiled and made a noise of agreement, leading her down the street towards the boarding house he now owned and ran. They left the café behind them, and to them it seemed that at least some of their fears had stayed there as well.


End file.
